


Stay In Coma

by zoomzoomzuppa



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Everything is heartbreaking, M/M, No one is ever happy here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoomzoomzuppa/pseuds/zoomzoomzuppa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to this prompt in the kink-meme:</p><p><i>There are mornings where when Charles has a hard time waking up, lost to the world of thoughts, with only rambles of other scrambled dreams pouring from his lips, not knowing which are his and which belong to another. Erik reminds him who he is each and every time, pulling him from the distorted vision of his mind and back into reality.</i></p><p><i>The morning after Cuba, Charles never wakes up. </i></p><p><i>I dont know what this prompt is, but I'm tired and it seemed important to write.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. for every end, there's a beginning

**I.**

It starts when there’s no moon in the sky and his mother is drinking her way into another man’s arms, disregarding the leg she’s showing, the lips she’s pursing, the flouncy way she imagines herself - despite herself. Because if she doesn’t pretend that she’s already laid out with Kurt Marko between her legs, or under another man to fix her before she drowns in the pool of vodka she’s swamped in, she won’t be able to pretend that she’s still that perfection on a billionaire’s platter and that’s a problem for her self-esteem.

Kurt Marko doesn’t actually give a tap dancing fuck whether or not she’s intelligent, or if the bonds she swears she has are real, because her house has rooms he can put between them, cars that crowd garages with chauffeurs to crowd the cars, and her legs don’t need too much plying.

Raven is on the floor that night, curled against a stuffed animal Charles had won her at a fair, dreaming sweet, soft nothings because Charles went out of his way to put them there for her comfort. A prick on the edge of her bubble snakes a hole the shape of reality into everything she knows isn’t real but that she caves herself into for the prospect of future sanity and she wakes up sharp, the raggedy plush horse crushed beneath her grip.

Charles is turning, arching, aching, whimpering, sweating, uttering things she can’t make out in his bed, the sheets a noose around every inch of him, choking the life of him out, replacing all that he is with a darkness that she knows so well. She pads quickly to his side, the depression of her body on the mattress enough to force his eyes into a bleary awareness of the night.

“Please, don’t stop, don’t stop – No, I won’t, but I shouldn’t, what would – this just feels so _right_ , please, oh, oh, - oh _hell_ they’re already at it, fucking whore didn’t even – my father can do better than this, she’s nothing, we don’t need her - what’s, I don’t understand, what are you trying to do to her, stop, leave my mother -”

Everything comes out vaguely as one word, strewn together with tiny gasps of breath in between, Charles’ eyes frantic in their search for something to clarify which voice is, was, will always be his - and what it was saying. Raven’s hand is soft but alarming against his wetted cheek – she couldn’t be sure if he was sweating from the strain or crying from the images – and he arches away from it, then back to it, not sure if he wants it, needs it, should be able to feel it, or not.

“Charles,” she whispers, stretching her body next to his, curling it to his soaked pajamas and hollowed whimperings, hoping he can hear her, see her, feel her well enough to know that she’s real, that he’s real, that he’s Charles. “Charles, listen to me, please,” she cries it, her tears guiding their way to his collarbone and he shakes against her, seizing but not, efforts useless.

He hears her but can’t place her and tries so hard to find her because she’s a light, a warm bright beaming sun in a meadow on the other side of the picket line while he’s waging a battle against drunken tirades, lewd suggestions, hatred, and cool disgust on the other side. Nothing works; he’s in a foxhole, all alone, peeking up in hopes that an escape is insight.

When Charles finally settles down it’s when the sunlight slides its way through the curtains at his window, spreading a calming green luminescence against his sheets, against Raven’s skin, against his mind, brightening things. Eyelashes fluttering, eyelids anxious to see what the room will bring to life, whether or not he’s got a peace of mind to see it with, everything comes into detailed, vivid focus. The room of an overactive imagination, of childhood dreams of flight and trains and science, of books and stuffed animals and of little sisters scared of the big bad monster in the closet.

“Raven, Raven,” he whispers into her temple, against the sleek sheen of her red hair, holding her to him until the frown creasing her forehead disappears. He knows where he is, but sifting through the mess of the previous evening is taxing and takes precision he’s never had to have and the sheets are so damp and constricting against him. He tries to force himself that remembering can’t always be too terrible, can’t always be so confusing.

 **II.**

By the time he’s college-age Charles has learned that, so long as he’s alone, he can sift through the pains in his waking moments after diligent work for an inordinate amount of time. Each night he retires early, disregarding the advances of women and men alike, to take to his bed, claiming headaches, studies, exhaustion, and anything else that isn’t difficult to convince them into believing. Each night he collapses, hoping that he’ll not have another night of fights, dreams, screaming, crying, love unrequited, requited love lives found in a romantics dreamscape, and fills his face with his pillows and sheets.

When he was nineteen he’d forsaken wearing much to bed, the twisting in damp clothes in both winter and summer impossible and thick and far too torturous a burden. He swims in just his undergarments, the placid colors of his sheets a pasty distortion against the calm that lingers for seconds on his features. Falling asleep is never the issue; sleep comes to him without fault or hindrance. No, sleep is one thing Charles can accomplish with little to no effort.

The noises that seep in, whisper through the vents of his brain, cross his subconscious, skirt over his own memories and desires, blanket all that is him within himself. Raised voices, deep whispers, promises both broken and kept, kisses, harsh slaps and gun shots; anything that touches within the radius of his mind sinks into him at a dispassionate rate. For what seems days, weeks, months, years, centuries, he stays within them, pressing into them, comforting, warming, holding, and helping fade into black until his eyelids slide to the break of daylight that shakes him.

Once he’s in college he forces himself to have an alarm clock that sounds loud and clear and crisp as early as he can make it without looking as maniacal as possible. Each morning it hits him before the sun does, before the morning can break him aware of himself. Each morning he whispers goodbyes, finding himself as he retraces the journey his sleeping took, as he reminds himself of all the lost souls seeking him without knowing it. He knows he can’t control it, that every day will bring him to this place of not knowing, of uncertainty, but there’s something in him that echoes that the tumultuous relationship he has with everything and everyone will one day bind him to himself.

With each gasping breath of relief of knowing himself again he realizes that it’s taking less and less time to force himself to awareness, and though Raven pretends that it’s his way of orchestrating things to benefit him, he knows it’s just him locking enough of himself away to keep himself sane, to keep himself alive when he needs it.


	2. the cool depths of sleep

**III.**

 **The night Charles meets Erik his dreams are wild, loud, and rampant across the grounds of the CIA housing he’s being kept in, filled to the brim with pains he’s never felt the rival of. He falls asleep with ease, and stays asleep with practiced peace until images of wars, stripped metal chains and fences, gunshots, and longing for things unattainable grab him. He cries out in his sleep, the words and mumblings bouncing off the thick, soundproof walls that shoot all of what he’s saying back to him, feeding the steps he’s taking down a road he never wishes to take. The chaos, entropy, flawlessness of each image that skids over him tramples down his temples in the sweat that’s sticking without reason, envelopes him like a scratching blanket of tacks. Each pin prick bleeds sensuous amounts of hatred into his life stream, contaminating each move he makes. Locked doors, barred windows, and chains protect whatever it is that’s seeking him and he’s caught up in a sea of unknowing, words amounting to little less than gibberish as they leave his mouth.**

 **Raven is with them - is in a room nearby - but sleeps peacefully as always.**

 **Erik doesn’t sleep. Charles does it for him. Erik feels it, feels the edging of something across his chest, a searing pain that deepens his wounds, but he doesn’t know it’s Charles and chalks it all up to his failure. His failure sinks deep into Charles and when he finally wakes up the next morning he’s torn his skin open on his left arm, the dim outline of numbers an impression of fingernails in the center of his pale, generally unscarred forearm. He doesn’t question it by the time he becomes aware of himself, because by then Moira is wrapping on his door and he’s blithely smiling at her, as if he hasn’t just spent the night crucified to his mutation’s whims.**

 **When he winces later when Raven grabs his arm to drag him around, only Erik notices, and only Erik doesn’t say anything when Charles pleads with him to see nothing.**

 ****IV.** **

“You don’t have to lie to me.” Erik is pouring them wine; it’s deep red and curling in smooth waves in the crystal of the wine glass. “I know what’s going on.”

Charles does his best to offer him a toothy, naïve grin. It falls flat on his face but he refuses to let it deviate from his original response. “I can assure you I haven’t a clue what you’re on about, my friend.”

Erik’s hands are steady as he passes Charles his wine glass, eyes locked on Charles’ as he accepts the gift gratefully. He doesn’t take the seat opposite, the dark to Charles’ light on the chessboard, not until he sees Charles heave a reluctant sigh over his wine.

“Part of this is being able to confront yourself, Charles.”

“You’re one to talk, my friend. I fear you've been looking for yourself for so long that you haven't realized you've found him.” Charles slides his glass to his lips, looking away, his attempts at draining the conversation hopefully hidden at the bottom of his cup.

“We’re not talking about me.” Erik’s determination is admirable, at best, but Charles knows how this will turn out. He’ll ask, he’ll poke, and prod, and bother Charles until he caves, and he’ll cave because it’s Erik, but he knows that he can’t, because Erik is what’s driving what’s left of Charles into that tiny cage, locked off somewhere hidden.

“We’re not talking about me, either.” All humor is gone from his voice, gone with the red wine and the first edge forward of a white pawn. Erik places his glass to the side, allowing his eyes to graze over the pieces.

 _Fine. For now._

The resolution in Erik’s mind as it drifts to Charles doesn’t shake him the way he thinks Erik hoped it would, but it seeds inside him, a promise he knows Erik won’t forget, one he’ll make good on. The fruition doesn’t worry Charles, not yet, because he knows deep down that there’s nothing Erik can do, because there’s never been anything that anyone could do.

Or so Charles tells himself, because being able to depend on someone is too good a notion to be real.


	3. this is how you'll always find me

**V.**

“You can’t take my brother, he’s too young, he’s too young, what the fuck are you doing, get back, get back – I miss him, I miss him and the feel of his hands before he left me – I wonder if he knows, I wonder if he sees me at all – is she real, is she here, does she exist – why can’t I find it, why can’t I find myself, where am I, am I still sinking in this tank, I just want to fly, I just want to scream – I can’t, don’t do this, don’t do this, this is wrong, you’ll get hurt, this won’t help, stop, stop, stop, no, _stop_ -”

It hasn’t been this bad in years, hasn’t been this frantic since he was young and caved to alcohol and easy women in his youth despite his need to sleep alone and Charles doesn’t know that he’s projecting – mildly, but projecting none the less – and when Raven meets Erik in the hall, both of them pale and sallow, dark bags under their eyes a signature of Charles, they both know why. Their eyes meet for a moment -

“You’re an asshole, an asshole who doesn’t understand anything – no, don’t hit her again, don’t hit her, you’ll hurt her, she’s so young, don’t touch her, touch me – there’s nothing you can do anymore, nothing to stop me, nothing to stop my dying – please, please, hurt me more, hurt me now, I need it -”

\- and Raven gasps, tears too heavy to not fall. Erik knows; knows more than she wants to admit, more than Charles is prepared to admit to later, and it’s that knowing that drives Erik to Charles, to the bed where night sweats and loose-lip muttering and thrashing is commonplace.

Charles is bleeding again; the sheets are stained, tainted with the voices pouncing on his psyche. Erik sinks on the mattress and Charles’ eyes are wide, shooting side to side, up, down, rolling backwards with a flush of rapid eyelash stutters. Raven, tight-lipped and stony in her oceanic features, emerges from the doorway carrying a few bandages and first aid kit. Erik takes them, kisses her cheek, hugs her close as she never once stops staring at her brother in his battle for safe passage to sleep; she leaves quietly, a breath at the doorframe before she closes the heavy door behind her. Erik knows she staying against the wood, crying, weeping for the pain her brother must suffer, but he doesn’t acknowledge her.

“ _Erik_ ,” is a distinguishable whimper from Charles’ lips and his body stills at Erik’s touch Charles on his arms. The bed ceases to quake, the sheets no longer twisting to each body tremor as they grow calm. A soft few sweeps of chilled alcohol elicit moans and hisses from Charles, but his heartbeat isn’t racing in Erik’s fingertips anymore and he’s breathing. Each breath is a soft rasp of air, nothing like the shallow gasps Charles was taking between each phrase and word and thought of jumbled mess.

Once the bandages are on, Erik moves to take the mess of paper and alcohol cotton swabs away, and the lack of contact incites Charles’ body into seizures again. The flop of pale skin and bone and slightly emaciated flesh topple onto Charles right side and his legs curl up and into his chest, fetal and tortured, gasps of horrific proportions falling from his mind. Erik immediately slides next to Charles’ body, ignoring the warmth and heat and shuddering fear that emanates from Charles and onto his skin, into his veins; no filter keeps all of Charles from his mind and he falls deep within the mindless droning of all other occupants with little to no warning.

“Erik.”

Charles startles himself awake, twisting in Erik’s lean embrace to face the man at his side. “Oh, Erik,”

“Yes Charles?”

It’s soft, promising, and Charles finds himself faster in that soft exhalation of adoration and sorrow than he ever did before, alone. He falls into Erik, falls into his skin and taste; he moans and moves against him until he can’t, until he’s a boneless mass of knowing against Erik’s strong, grounding frame. They still themselves, breathing heavy and avoiding eye contact, picking staring contests with the sticky, bloody, climactic sheets they were haphazardly underneath.

“Charles.” Charles says his own name, tentatively, as though the word were foreign to his tongue. Erik’s grip tightens, hands on Charles’ waist.

“Charles.” Erik kisses it into Charles’ hair, and Charles stays like that, smiling, knowing, peaceful.

“Charles.” And he finally knows it, for certain, no longer guessing, no longer weeding his way through everything that tethers him to everything he isn’t.

 

**VI.**

For two weeks, every night, after chess, after wine, after talks of peace and promise and revenge, Erik lays next to Charles. For two weeks, every night, after training, after searching for others, after embracing and forgetting, Charles glides into the puzzle piece perfection of Erik underneath the sheets.

For two weeks, every night, after the voices sink in and take control, Erik wraps his arms around Charles, and every night, he gets lost in a world he’s thrust into without a compass; Charles finds Erik and grabs hold.

For two weeks, Charles wakes up to Erik whispering his name over, and over, and over, through tears, through racing heart beats, through kisses, through hands and pain. For two weeks, Charles remembers himself faster than he ever could dream possible.

For two weeks, Charles gets as close to sleep as he ever will.


	4. there are goodbyes, and hellos in them.

**VII.**

“IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouI -”

Erik kisses Charles’ tears away from his lips, from his eyes, from his cheeks and Charles weeps more, weeps more until he’s limp and exhausted and catatonic, peaceful and asleep, with just his chest rising, and he’s not crying, not screaming, or thrashing, or mumbling nonsense from someone else’s mind.

“I love you too,” Erik presses into him, presses into his knowing, his subconscious, that open space of destruction, that place of mending the works of others’ minds. And he means it, and it guides Charles to sleep, to quiet, to one night of freedom.

One night of love breaks everything Charles had ever built to prevent himself from falling.

 **VII.**

“We want the same thing.”

Charles’ lips are stringent, in a straight line, preventing a frown, a smile of inappropriate humor, from cracking. “I am sorry my friend, but we do not.”

The wire of string left keeping Charles tied to Erik gets cut by the fates in that moment, Erik’s eyes cold and soft and hurt and sorry all at once and Charles can’t let himself cry, can’t let himself swell with everything that will only complicate him further, because Erik stands up and motions for Moira to take his place at Charles’ side.

The blur of movement around him results in Raven being at his side, clutching him, streaming tears into him, streaming her fear, and hurt, and love into him, and he grabs her hands with his own.

“Go with him. It’s what you want.”

Raven’s eyes well further with tears, her lips quivering with each word, a smile sarcastic on her face. “You promised me that you would never do that.”

Charles responds in kind, gentle and probing, assuring her that he’ll be fine, that she’ll be fine, that nothing will ever change his love for her. “I promised you a lot of things.” She lets him take her hands to his lips, lets the searing pain of saying goodbye to the two most important people in his life tingle on her flesh.

Raven walks away, walks to Erik, stands beside the man Charles loves, the man he needs to survive, and disappears in a fit of curling smoke and rebellion.

“I can’t feel my legs,” is the last thing Charles says out lout, the last thing he wraps up in that cage that Erik so easily had unlocked. He captures each of the emotions he can find and throws them back to where they belong, back to the dark pit of his anxious worry, and lends a watchful eye so they do not mend or break again to anyone else’s whims.


	5. if i pretend, you could still be there.

**IX.**

The hospital is loud and Charles sees the linoleum as he’s wheeled around, as he’s stripped of his suit, as doctors and nurses ask him inane questions, and he sinks away, sinks further into nothingness with each sweep of motion meant to aid him. He can’t register any of his body’s movements, doesn’t sense the surgery but instead senses the steadiness of the doctors, the strength of the nurses, the confidence of the people in the post-op. The feeling of the stiff bed in his hospital room does nothing to soothe the aching in his chest as it beats faster and faster, the journey of sleep forbidden ahead of him in the waning moments of his disregarded distorted reality.

He stares at the ceiling for hours, blankly forgetting himself.

 **X.**

“Charles? What are you – are you okay?”

Charles turns, slowly, searching for the faceless voice behind him somewhere, longing to see it. The gray color of the world meets him in a haze, his response a thought bubble that floats up and to the sky without a destination.

“No. No, I don’t believe I am.”

And Charles isn’t, and won’t be, because everything he is is locked away in a cage with Erik as the key and he can’t force that, can’t force it open even if he wanted to, which he never will.

From that day in Cuba on, from that heart-wrenching ultimatum on the beach of _mutants versus humans_ or _me_ in which the _me_ did not win, Charles doesn’t wake up, because he doesn’t sleep. Because if he doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t have to dream, and he doesn’t have to see anyone else if he doesn’t dream.

Especially himself.


End file.
